Torchwood :: Himalayas
by MekQuarrie
Summary: Jack has mysteriously disappeared, and now someone very important wants the rest of the team out of the way.
1. Chapter 1

Glasgow was accustomed to gloomy mornings; cold, wet, and misty - even in a post-industrial age. But inside, the cosy Exhibition Centre was still busy with a number of conventions and crowds of delegates. Bruce wandered into the main thoroughfare that linked the variety of halls, mixing awkwardly with the mass of delegates. In a combination of the larger exhibit halls, 'Robot 21' (slogan "An Exploration of Synthetic Technology Solutions for the 21st Century - and Beyond") was taking place.

Bruce bustled past the blue-blazered events staff, the only person not challenged by security personnel or systems. Despite his size, most of the delegates ignored him too. He looked avidly around the stalls, pausing to smirk at some of the laughably naïve technology being peddled by juvenile scientists and infantile businessmen. 'SuperSoldierSolutions' said one stall (clearly funded by the bottomless pit of US Department of Defense budget). Bruce suppressed a belly laugh at the banner poster illustrating a 'robot fighting machine' that would be about as useful as a newspaper stand in a firestorm. Still, he reflected, it would probably do in a human-to-human war. Technology always impresses, often inspires. But in a real fight, victory was usually secured - "sustained" Bruce usually added - by instinct. And instinct was probably something that humankind had now lost completely. Apart from a few individuals. And, of course, instinct was not reserved to humans. Bruce smirked to himself as he occasionally did.

"I'm surprised to see you here, Mr. Bruce." A young man with dreadlocks was brushing floor-dust into a small innocuous cart. Bruce normally ignored the exhibition center staff, and particularly despised the facilities staff who were habitually far too chatty.

"Well, I don't make a habit of it." Bruce would normally have feigned an urgent pace and continued walking by, but as the crowd had thickened he paused briefly to comment. "I hope you're keeping busy." Bruce moved off almost instantly as the crowd flowed again, cursing himself. He had sounded too interested. It was supposed to have been a challenge.

He was always on the lookout for clues, odd materials, and out-of-place kit. It was the part of his job that he liked the most. Occasionally some fools had taken the opportunity to exhibit wares that were clearly above their pay-grade and indeed intellectual level, looking only for a top-class pay-off. Although like most other nations, Scotland was moving slowly towards the concept of a single federal police force (still dallying with the imperfections of its clunky regional forces), there was already a small but secret supra-national force known affectionately as The Integrity Service (that was probably their real name) that carried out small actions in the interest of... well, not national or international security, but of... humanity in general. A bit dramatic, but that was the point. Today, he had spotted only one booth, claiming to offer sturdy body-armor of a suspiciously lightweight material. Bruce needed to investigate the nature of the material. Using a borrowed terminal, he accessed an online portal to 'book' the services of The Service then finished his lunch. Some officers, clothed plainly in, say, Railway Police uniforms would arrive to clear away the stall from the exhibition, rolling up the posters, and leaving a small and amusing teapot savings bank with a label "Business Cards Here" to infer normal background service. The materials of interest would then be delivered to Bruce's laboratory where no-one but Bruce would see them again. The exhibitors would fare better, being 'debriefed' heavily on the provenance of their too-fantastic find then released with all sorts of petty and unenforceable warnings. Chemical mind-control would not usually be necessary.

Bruce feared travel, believing it might broaden the mind, so this particular opportunity not to travel was welcome indeed. He lived not too far from the Exhibition Centre itself. A giant industrial-era crane stood in plain sight mere yards from the exhibition halls. Grey and grim it was grudgingly adorned by the name of the 'CLYDEWORLD' company painted in capitals on one side, 200 metres from the ground. The crane had been used historically for loading the heaviest of goods onto ocean-going cargo ships. Now, it was retained nominally for military operations, with the ridiculous proposal that it would load tanks and materiel onto warships during an all-out (twentieth century-style) mobilization. In fact, were it not for the shielding effect of the entrance, thousands of people a day would see him stand on the elevator plate and descend gracefully into the gloomy depths of the crane's foundations. He liked to think of it as his home, a protection from the outside world. To the very few others who knew of its location it was known more mundanely as Torchwood Two.

Having dismissed most of the displays at the conference as mere rubbish, Bruce found some items to fashion a high tea and returned to his comfy little bunker. The daily technology dossiers were still waiting for completion when he got to his desk (a desk saved originally from the S.S. Transylvania). He hated paperwork, but was thankful not to be in the middle of the current panic of the Prime Minister's slightly frenetic intelligence gathering exercise (collecting military data even on our allies). But Bruce still hated paperwork. Almost straight away, he allowed himself to be distracted by flicking a mercury pellet from a tiny replica cannon on his desk. Then, casually, with little more than a series of scowls he made it swirl around the brickwork of the main chamber in a smooth curve. The pellet then returned gently to the desk. "Some psychic ability" he mouthed. The assessors would have to review that judgment he felt in good conscience. "Plenty of psychic ability" he mouthed contentedly.

The phone on the desk rang. Not just any phone. The Phone. Without any need for psychic ability, Bruce knew who was calling and quickly picked up the phone. He held his breathe and listened.

"Bruce?" purred a pleasant male voice at the other end.

Bruce smiled excitedly. "What can I do for you, Mr Saxon?"


	2. Chapter 2

Toshiko did not always like her job, and, since there was no time-clock for her to check-in, she did not always rush to get there early in the morning. So, today, it was not unusual to find her wandering around the local convenience store feeling aimless. She flicked thru the usual array of celebrity magazines looking for something ordinary to catch her attention, give her mind something to feed on. She passed over all of them, picking up a weekly news digest instead. Naturally enough, that nice Mr. Saxon was featured on the cover, his smile beaming out. The cover headline promised pictures and more inside. Tosh was pleased that he had won the election. Everything he had said was just right. Something to do with a sick society, something to do with a cure. She never really bothered herself beyond that.

Just a few weeks before the emergency election, Tosh had noticed an intercepted communication about Torchwood and its connection with national security. Out of interest, she had tapped into the U*N*I*T conference call and watched the video feeds as they conferenced together. The then Defence Minister was chairing the Joint Outside Intelligence committee, blatantly undermining Prime Minister Jones, promising the world to the selected representatives who listened enthralled. But more importantly, what caught Tosh's attention, was that there would be more resources (which she assumed would mean more money) for the Torchwoods in their fight against… Well, in their fight. She did not always like to visualize what they did. It helped to get her out of bed in the morning. But she had felt good about Saxon.

Clutching the magazine, Tosh found herself waiting at the busstop outside the store. She stared into space, not even concerned if the bus was late or not. Her car, of course, was still being repaired after yet another timewash incident. It always seemed to happen to her. Little splatters of energy would spurt from The Rift and, for the next few hours, swirl around the city randomly shorting electrical equipment, traffic signals and microwave ovens. But Toshiko Sato seemed to attract more attention from the little splatters than anyone else. She would wake in the morning and find her radio alarm had switched itself off, her coffee machine heated the water too slowly, her mobile phone said the wrong date, and her car would not start. Jack would make fun of her.

"Why would a little energy splash pick on you?" He would laugh with his lovely smile. "My car always starts in the morning. And I've been a very bad boy." He would raise his eyebrows and she could smile safely.

This time there was no Jack to reassure her, to make light of the jokes that the universe played only on her. He was gone. Noone knew where. And noone knew if he would ever be back.

So, when on Saturday morning, she had woken blinking at lunchtime to a house devoid of electrical activity, she had been a little sheepish about calling for help. She thought that her immediate colleagues would laugh at her, Gwen and Ianto; and Owen would probably be least interested. She had made her way to a local callbox with a slip of paper from a dusty old organizer and pressed random coins into the slot. An elderly friend from the Security Service, a driving instructor no less, had answered his phone in his little office in Hatton Garden in London and made all the arrangements. Her tiny apartment was no trouble at all. Tosh was no electrical expert, but it seemed that the teenage girl in the knitted cardigan who arrived to 'revive' the three-room residence did little more than flip the fusebox switches back to their operating positions. The car was a different prospect all together. The whole vehicle had been 'degaussed' by the timewash leaving it dead and inoperative. A cheerful young man in a boiler suit had come to take it on Sunday morning.

A quick phonecall beforehand. Knock at the door. Flash of the badge. Car on the back of the loader. Quick phonecall afterwards. Just to check.

She had looked out of her window again minutes later and done a doubletake. Another car was in its place. Identical to hers. Driven in quietly by an unseen person. Maybe the old lady with the dog. But Tosh had no key to this car. She had no access until her own set of wheels returned. Noone said when it would be returned, but that was probably okay. The duplicate car made sense in a way. Since her own car was going to be away. Something had to fill the space.

No.

That didn't really make sense. Why could the space not be left empty? Someone somewhere had worked it out. So it must be right, but she still felt left out. Surely a courtesy car was not out of the question? Courtesy cars were not an alien invention after all. (Were they?)

The rain came on, a light shower, and she tilted her head back down the road. Now she wondered if the bus would be long in coming. There was still noone waiting at the stop with her. She was not sure if that was a good sign or not. Maybe the buses had been cancelled that morning and she had missed it on the news. Maybe there was a strike.

She found herself sitting on the small hopper bus, clutching the magazine in one hand and a small paper ticket in the other. She had forgotten to buy a return ticket which would have worked out cheaper overall. Subconsciously, she had rather hoped that someone would give her a ride home, but having made the effort to conceal the reason for her dalliance with public transport, it now struck her as absurd to then confess the whole plot for the sake of a pound. Tosh sighed and hoped that the day would pass quickly with nothing remarkable to delay her rushing home at the end.


	3. Chapter 3

Bruce sat at his desk transfixed by the caller on the line. He couldn't even reach forward to put the call on the speaker. It was either melodrama or fear. He could not tell which.

"I have a little task for you, Bruce. Just a tiny little favor. But it will mean prising you out of your comfort zone, your little box under the ground, for a few days. Sorry, it can't be helped. Possibly a few weeks. No more than three." The voice was smooth, relaxed, apologetic, almost dismissive.

Bruce had no idea what to do, what to say. "Thank you for thinking of me, Prime Minister. I'm quite honored, and a little surprised. I'm sure whatever you have in mind there are more… effective operatives at your disposal Mr. Saxon, sir. I'm more of an intelligence man."

"Don't be coy, Bruce. You have talents, and a… ruthless approach to problems. I need some clever people to be distracted for a little while. Just to help me out." Mr. Saxon appeared to know what he wanted. And how to get it.

Bruce was taken aback. "I'm not really called on to meet people, Prime Minister." He could not hide the reluctance in his voice. At first, it had not seemed odd that so many people wanted to instantly do what Mr. Saxon asked them to do. Sycophancy, after all, was a trait important to most species of primate. But Bruce was totally the opposite, being naturally reluctant to do anything that anyone else instructed him to do. Eventually it dawned on him that something more than just specious loyalty was being exhibited; people were almost entranced en masse by their new leader. But Bruce did not allow himself to be bothered by the trivialities of other people's behavior. What would it benefit him?

"Come now." Mr. Saxon was reassuring. "These aren't just any people. On no, no, no. I'm sure you have their pictures above the fireplace. I'm talking about your esteemed colleagues at Torchwood." Mr. Saxon took relish in emphasizing the last syllable in 'esteemed'. Esteem-ed.

Bruce was shocked. "At Torchwood? Which one? Not that shower that Harkness keeps as pets?" Now it seemed that the possibilities were endless.

"Ah, Bruce. Does that sound more interesting now?" There was a small chuckle from the end of the line. Bruce began to think quickly, his deep hidden urge to compete struggling with his natural urge to flee the conversation.

"What's our end game?" He whispered. "My end game?" He needed to show that he had a plan, and that he was already working on it, which he was.

"Total and utter removal from our lovely kingdom. A jolly sojourn from this sceptred isle." The voice was casual, but the scale of the task was not lost on Bruce.

"No red files?" Certain awful responsibilities flooded his mind.

"I'm sorry, I'm not up to speed yet on secret servant talk. You can, of course, choose whatever color of stationery suits your purposes." The voice was tailing off as Mr. Saxon's mind appeared to be drifting. With a thrill of fear, Bruce realized he would have to be quick in securing what he wanted from this opportunity.

"Apologies, Prime Minister. One occasionally lapses into a Cold War lexicon. Do you expect it will be necessary for one or more of my colleagues to be executed? Harkness might be tricky by all accounts, but I could work on it."

"Oh. The Captain will not be a problem. He is on a mission of his own choosing." There was a reflective pause. "I had not been thinking of death, premature death, but don't tie yourself creatively. You have a free hand. Individuals need not be an issue." Bruce imagined a magnanimous hand being waved in London. All his winter festivals had collided on just one day. It was good to know that, for some reason, Harkness would not be loitering with his inane grin, interfering randomly with the most careful of plans. Of all the people Bruce had been forced into contact with, Captain Jack Harkness had been the most insulting.

"Understood. Leave it to me. I can work-up most of the intel from here, but – hmm – maybe some other specialist bits of kit would come in handy." He had to make a quick bid for some exceptional concessions.

"Whatever you need, Bruce. Excellent. Just go to the Torchwood toy cupboard and take what you like. I'll let Ben know. It's yours to handle now." The energy in Saxon's was voice dipping quickly.

"Thank you, Prime Minister." His glee was barely hidden.

"And thank you, Bruce." The conversation appeared to be over.

Bruce felt almost child-like in his excitement. He already had enough kit in Glasgow to take on any modern Spanish Armada. But he had seen an opportunity and impulsively asked for free rein. The 'toy cupboard' indeed. All of Torchwood's trinkets at his disposal. He reflected that no work day would ever be better than this. He opened on-screen access to the combined archive of kit stored by U*N*I*T, Torchwood and a few other agencies.

"Bruce?" The PM was still on the line. Bruce winced. He had been distracted by his own eagerness, potentially a fatal lapse.

"Yes, Prime Minister?" He attempted a positive air; not something Bruce was accustomed to revealing.

"Don't let me down." The PM's air was equally positive; almost cheerful. There was a long pause.

"No, Prime Minister." The call went quiet as Bruce was still speaking, signalling that now he was definitely on his own. Figuratively and literally. The challenge that Saxon had presented him was great, almost fantastical, in its scale, but the rewards would be great too.

As Bruce scrolled further and further thru the catalog of stored alien kit, it also dawned on him that the reward for failure could be all too simple. But there was nothing to be gained from worrying about his long-term future, and everything to be gained from planning big.


	4. Chapter 4

Owen Harper stood looking down on the motorway. It was a pretty uninspiring sight. Cars and lorries roared past, some to Wales, some to London. He had been to London to tie up some loose ends. The early days of Torchwood had left him in a mess, walking out on a mortgage and a career, but walking out on a way of life and a way of thinking too.

It had taken him a long time to literally have any thoughts of returning to sort out his previous life. Owen mulled over the word 'closure' in his mind. It was a pretty poor term used by petty psychologists. It usually referred to crying at funerals or leaving flowers by the roadside. It could mean all sorts of nebulous things, saying "sorry", saying "goodbye", and ultimately meant nothing. You either get over some things or you don't. "Closure" should really mean just that, closing the door and fixing it with a great big padlock.

So when Jack had disappeared, an opportunity had arisen for a bit of clear thinking. Without telling anyone else, Owen had decided to take a week to reflect on what he was doing in Cardiff.

After renting a small car and a couple of hours driving, Owen pitched up at a travel chain hotel in Ealing. Without much planning, he went first to the City of London to say "sorry" on the steps of St. Paul's where he had proposed to his wife. Outside there was a small protest taking place, students and the usual suspects waving banners. Some of the more makeshift sheets had the words "Saxon Out!" spray-painted onto household sheets. Owen had noticed that, oddly, the second word had been struck out, apparently by the same hand. Again, the more professional protestors held aloft neatly trimmed card signs, hand-printed and laminated. But whatever the original demands were, they had been smoothly veneered over with corrective text. "What do we want? Saxon! When do we want him? Now!" Owen felt his thoughts turning away from his plan of closure. He had started to wonder what was going on there.

"Are you attending the choral service?" A voice behind had snapped him back to attention. A young Anglican priest, a man in a smart black suit, smiled and waved him in one of doors off to the side of the front entrance.

"No. Just passing. A few words. A few thoughts." Owen had offered little, but conceded to enter the cathedral.

"That's absolutely fine. It'll be quieter in here though. We have many side chapels. They're ideal for that."

Owen had not intended to make a big religious show, far from it. He politely stood in the small section facing one of the smaller stained glass windows and uneasily counted away a few seconds.

"What are they protesting about?" he whispered to edge out of the situation.

"Goodness knows," said the priest. "Last month it was Harriet Jones. Then a few weeks ago it was that nice Mr. Saxon. I think they were worried he might win the election and drag us into some war or other."

Owen resisted the urge to point out that they read the same papers in Cardiff, but he had nodded sagely.

"Then, the day before the election, they all seemed to wake up in those dreadful tents and agree to take a different tack. Changed all the wording on their banners. Strange. Still protesting, of course. But I can't work out what they are unhappy about now. They seem to have got what they want."

Owen had nodded his agreement, then shook the priest's hand. "Thank you. It was nice to get a moment."

"No problem. All visitors are welcome. We suggest a donation of five pounds, if you don't mind. I can get you a receipt."

After a few more days of wandering around scenic views, the novelty had worn off. So this very morning he had said "goodbye" to his favourite English breakfast at a small café behind the old Arsenal tube station. After an impulsive phonecall a former colleague had travelled from the center of town to meet him.

"Well Owen," he exclaimed. "What a surprise. We all thought you had died at Canary Wharf or in that bizarre Christmas star attack."

"You might as well assume that. Once we're done here, I'm going to disappear again. That'll be the last you see of me." He had motioned his hands together firmly. "Door closed."

"We miss your specialist knowledge at Great Ormond Street. Especially at the pub quiz. I was never any good at sports." That had been a low blow, and the conversation dipped while they ate.

Owen had begun to slump slightly over the tight table, closing his eyelids a little, making the room a little hazier, unreal, like when he was a child. Outside, the rain lashed the pavement quietly. A fading election poster with Mr. Saxon's smiling face stared back at him. Some rebellious child had crayoned on a ridiculous beard, along with horns and a trident.

"I've got nothing left to give there," he conceded. "But there are things that I do now, that are important. Very important. You do what you can, and I'll do what I can."

"Of course, Owen. I'll save the world my way and you save the world yours."

Owen had nodded, and within minutes they were both on their way again traveling in different directions.

And on that Monday morning he had closed the door. Locked it shut. And here he was, a quick pie at Reading, and a bit of a breather before submerging himself again in the pit of oddness that might easily see out the rest of his life.

"To Wales," he muttered.


	5. Chapter 5

Ianto Jones had to be honest. Some days, life at Torchwood was a little dull. The boss was away on a very abrupt kind of personal leave and there was a suspicious lack of anything to do from further up the command structure. Tosh and Owen had both decided not to show up for work; at least not in the morning. He didn't blame them really. Monday could be a difficult day for anyone. If your job involved spreadsheets and colored sticky notes, it would be hard enough to get out of bed. But if your job involved rounding up alien scum, decoding strange energy waves, listening to bizarre directives from the lunatic bureaucrats in London, and generally looking into the mouth of madness, the blankets might stay tucked around you a little tighter when the alarm clock rang in the morning.

Ianto's feet were on Jack's desk when the main door opened. Gwen sat nearby combining analysis of signal traffic with the aspects of a high tea. While Jack was away, Ianto felt that he had to show that he was in charge. Sitting at the desk looking nonchalant was just part of appearing to be in charge. Gwen did her best to be supportive; Jack was her mentor and best big brother after all. There was a generous click and a concerted hiss as all the servos engaged to open the main blast door. Ianto frowned lightly, not sure why Owen or Tosh had even bothered to turn up. Gwen seemed completely oblivious and continued noisily to punish the fruit in her salad. Strangely, there was no auto-recognition of his colleagues on the security screen as the door rolled open. His professional instincts piqued, Owen's hand reached noiselessly to the revolver on the breakfast bar, his gaze fixed on the doorway. Gwen stopped chewing as she saw the motion of Owen's hand. She turned quietly, not sure what she would see.

Ianto froze at attention, alarmed when he realized that it was definitely not one of his Hub friends who had walked in. "What the..?" blurted out Ianto, which was never normally something he said. He sat up in the chair, gripping the edge of the desk. A large man – human anyway – stood quietly in the doorway in plain sight, concealed only by heavy shadow. The brief possibility that this was Jack returning in a bad-taste prank, was quashed by the size of the figure.

"Can I help you?" piped up Ianto with over-casual politeness. Was this some innocent sewer worker stumbling into the wrong drain? He really had to do something about the light shining in from behind the entrance. The security screen had now resolved the intruder into a stylized black silhouette. But nothing more. Where the presumed identity or – at the very least – species should have been filled in, there was a single bold question mark. Ianto's eyes flicked from the screen to the intruder and back. The question mark began to rotate onscreen as the processor attempted to identify the intruder.

Gwen held her breath, eyes wide, wondering how their security had been breached so easily. She pondered how useful her cutlery would be if the introductions turned nasty. The shady figured then stepped into the light, slowly sizing up the transfixed duo. Ianto raised the revolver slowly, but not threateningly.

"Don't be ridiculous Mr. Jones. Save your bullets for your fellow team members, " the man mouthed scathingly. "That's how you do it down here, isn't it?" he hissed with a sneer. His gaze flitted over the desk, taking in the disarray and none of the detail. Then he widened his assessment to the whole office and the Hub by implication.

"What a mess," he concluded with some disgust. Clearly, the expression of his own views was more important than a feeble attempt at conversation.

Ianto lowered the revolver just as the security screen crunched the vocal input and reached its conclusion. "Bruce?" hissed Ianto at the same moment as the screen flashed up the Torchwood Two designation. Ianto did a double-take as he saw that the internal security system had, as he had done, added a question mark at the end of Bruce's name.

Ianto turned back to his nominal colleague, a slight frown on his face. He held the revolver steady, but still pointed at the floor.

"You know Jack said you weren't welcome," he pointed out. "Why have you come, Bruce? And how did you get in here?"

"I walked in," remarked the broad stranger without explanation. "This must be Constable Cooper," he indicated with neither charm nor actual interest in her identity. He cast his eyes randomly around the organized chaos of The Hub, spotting Jack's office with obvious interest.

Gwen felt this familiarity lacked a little respect. She turned away from the charmless intruder. "Okay, Ianto. I'll take the bait. Who is this? And why is he wandering around like he owns the place?"

Bruce quarter-turned to call back over his shoulder. "For now, Officer, I do."

Ianto shrugged, bemused. "I'm not sure how the hierarchy works outside of our office. I'm not really even sure that we have a hierarchy. Other than who is left alive at the end of the day, I mean."

Gwen leaned forward and spoke quietly to Ianto. "If he's not welcome, then why don't we just zap him? Or set the guard dog on him?"

Ianto thought briefly. "I suspect Bruce has been zapped enough times that he wouldn't remember who he was originally anyway."

Bruce was then standing behind them, closer than they might have reasonably believed.

"Excellent, Mr. Jones. You will have a promising career in what now passes for comedy if your day job ever falls thru."

Ianto's ears began to blush, part embarrassment, part anger.

"Can we gather the rest of the team together, Mr. Jones?" Bruce was polite. "Assuming any of them are left alive. And always assuming you can persuade them to call in on a weekday?"


	6. Chapter 6

Although it was still early enough in the evening for the natural light to mix favorably with the electrical sources, there was still a chill in the Hub briefing room as Bruce activated the familiar main screen and an older-fashioned display screen. Ianto was not quite sure where this plastic and aluminum projection screen had emerged from - certainly Jack himself was not known to embrace minor office technology - but Bruce had a clear familiarity with all their equipment and began talking before he had even turned around.

From Bruce's point of view, this was to be a very brief briefing, fulfilling some kind of nominal need to present a case. For the team, he judged it would require little explanation for them to pursue their colleague.

"Listen carefully," said Bruce. "Harkness is gone and that is, of course, a great concern to the Torchwood resource."

Owen, now seated with the other three, adjudged Bruce's level of concern to be at or about the value of zero on the matter. Having made the decision to make an appearance that day, he was surprised to be watching this man-mountain of indeterminate Scottish origin standing in the place of Jack. Jack, who was in reality the only person they had counted as a leader, had mentioned Bruce a couple of times, and had not been very complimentary. So what, Owen wondered, was between these men? Professional rivalry? Maybe even jealousy? Certainly, Owen smiled to himself, it seemed unlikely to have been the kind of relationship that Jack seemed to initiate with almost otherworldly effort.

"We have searched all the data available to us carefully and our analysts at GCHQ have put together a number of theories," Bruce continued. He flipped quickly thru a sequence of satellite images, each overlaid with a range of energy filters. "But only one has any credibility."

A single slide remained on the screen. A pair of satellite images, time-dated around the time of Jack's disappearance, stood together. One showed a very familiar crackle of energy centred on the Rift almost exactly where they were sitting. The other location was difficult to interpret, but it seemed to be inland, far away from water. A similar pattern of crackling energy was apparent.

"Oh dear. This isn't looking good," whispered Ianto to Owen.

"There's been a lot of Chinese signal activity referring to this spike of energy," Bruce pointed out. "American satellites have nothing. Our local contacts have nothing. But machine analysis across all the Torchwood resources has highlighted this potential hotspot in the Himalayan region. Great whirls of energy have been rolling around for the past few weeks. But they ceased completely only a week or so ago. It almost exactly coincides with the disappearance of Captain Harkness."

There was a pause while the seated friends analyzed the slides. Owen raised his hand half-heartedly, almost as if admiring his fingernails. "When you say 'Himalayan region', Bruce, do you mean 'heavily disputed hostile border region of Tibet'?"

"No, Dr. Harper. The borders are fixed. The disputes are purely internal politics." Bruce closed his plastic folder containing his papers and rubbed his fingers along the screen of his tablet computer. He wanted to give the impression of a job completed.

"If there are no real questions, my proposal then, is that we investigate this hotspot. It may be a doorway connecting with the Rift on this side of the planet, and Captain Harkness has walked thru it. He may be there; he may not. He might be injured; he might be perfectly fine. He might not wish to see anyone at this time; he might be desperate to see anyone at all." Bruce paused for the natural drama of his little speech.

"We can do this as a combined Torchwood team. I have all the necessary authority to run it, move things along, but you can decide what to bring. In fact, you can also decide the opposite. Just stay here if you want."

"It's not exactly a cast-iron lead," mused Owen. "Not for a secret invasion of Communist China."

Bruce raised his eyes, "No?" showing interest for a blink, then looked down again at his screen. "Well then. There is the end of the matter."

"Owen, no." Tosh whispered. She shook her head stiffly hoping to catch Gwen's eye.

"Bruce?" smiled Gwen. "Bruce, you must know that this is a big step. Even for a friend like Jack." She turned slightly to indicate she was attempting to speak for them all. Bruce blinked skeptically.

"Of course, Constable Cooper. Let's make this simple. I know you particularly will appreciate that. I'm staying in Newport tonight. Tomorrow morning I will get on a plane. You can decide whether I return to important business defending the realm in Glasgow or head east to find our erstwhile colleague."

Gwen stayed still in her seat. There was no apparent conflict, and no apparent need to rush. Again, a series of looks passed between the team members.

"That's great, Bruce," said Gwen. "Leave us a number and we'll call you in good time." The presentation was now officially finished.

Bruce seemed ambivalent to this answer. He packed his small briefcase with his notes and pieces of equipment. He pressed a yellow sticky note onto the conference table beside Gwen, saying "A text will suffice." Then, instead of heading for the blast door exit, he walked thru to the elevator pad and stood still to await ascent.

Still seated, Owen whispered under his breath to Ianto. "Has he been here before?"

"No. There are no entries in any of the logs. I checked," replied Ianto absent-mindedly.

As he started to ascend, Bruce joined the conversation by shrugging his shoulders with some magnanimity. His hearing must have been astonishingly acute. "That must be your answer then, Dr. Harper." He seemed pleased with his sarcasm as he disappeared out of sight.

So while Bruce retired off to some unnamed local hotel where he could no doubt lock himself away from normal people, the team discussed the plan. After a short and heated side-chat about ordering take-out, they gathered again around the planning table in the conference room. Two giant pizzas were open in the centre of the table, each ready to be eaten. Ianto started to munch away without reference to his colleagues.

"Who's up for it then?" he mumbled.


	7. Chapter 7

There were many military storage areas in Wiltshire that held secret equipment. Some of them were so secret that even the top military brass had no knowledge of them. In fact they were excluded specifically from knowing about them. U*N*I*T had started its days as a collaborative affair sharing resources across many countries for the common good of human-kind. But, very quickly, it became, of necessity, much more secretive than any of its founders had foreseen.

Deep beneath the plains of Wiltshire, one of the U*N*I*T facilities dealt feverishly with robotics and cybernetic equipment mixing what people believed to have been their own discoveries with the windfalls of alien technology that had become all too frequent in recent decades after the major wars and, indeed, spurred on by the continuing wars.

A special order had arrived that morning. The main research work was not interrupted despite the highest priority 'T2' flagging. First, a minor assistant, Sheila, was tasked with checking thru their documentation for the location of the requested equipment and compiling a cover document with recommended operating instructions, safety warnings and system parameters. "That's going to be a big load of equipment," she thought to herself. Next, an equally minor warehouse picker, Tony, picked up the compiled electronic 'job-bag' on his screen on his basement terminal and noted a few numbers on a sheet of dusty paper. He trundled smoothly on a small electric cart into the biggest vault, the one known as The Arcis, and visually inspected the shelves containing the largest set of components. "Surprise," he said. "Always some missing." He scored thru the alleged quantity of '20' and wrote '18' beside it. A few further checks on the smaller components revealed similar discrepancies in the numbers; small-scale clerical errors or large-scale pilfering, it was impossible to know. Finally, the picking 'bots released the identified crates and merged them all into one efficiently packed order, neatly arranged in the pallet hangar ready for heavy lift. As Tony levered himself out of the cart back into his wheelchair, he noticed the size of the profile on his desktop flat-screen. He called up to Sheila.

"Hi Sheila. It's your future husband," he stated.

"This is a work call, Tony. Try to be professional." Sheila never seemed to play along with his jokes. It made for very dry conversations.

"Did you compile the job-bag for that T2 pick, Sheila?"

"Yes, Tony. It's in the footers of the document. Is that all? I'm finished for the night." It was very late for a Monday evening finish. "I've got to get home to feed the cat and then maybe some sleep in time to get up again to come back to this place in the morning."

"Forget the cat tonight, Sheila," he attempted his favorite Roger Moore silkiness. "They love to look after themselves. Instinct you know. Why don't we dine together this evening, and see where the mood takes us?"

"Tony. We all know you have a written warning for this kind of thing. I'm hanging up. The cat is calling."

"Wait, Sheila." He feigned regret. "It's just this problem with the T2 order. I know you're the only one who can help me with it."

"Shut up, Tony. I know you have more respect for the processor on your mobile-phone. Is there an actual real, 'help me, help me' problem?"

"Yes. The floor-plan for the boxes is too big by about a metre. I either have to follow the letter of the order and call down a Starlifter from one of the USAF bases. Or knock off one of the jagged edges and stuff it all into a Herc. There are two of those in the car park."

Sheila spluttered at the idea of bringing in an American lifter, then sighed as she tapped away on the keys. Tony liked to listen to her keystrokes, always imagining what design adorned her acrylics that day. She too, of course, had that yellow sticky note loosely fixed to her computer screen. Some time in the last few weeks, just after the election, everyone discovered this most unofficial of instructions nudging their activities. No meetings, no electronic mails, nor printed notices. Everyone had received the nod as they sat down to start the day's work.

'NO US X-Refs'

"Tony?" She shook him from his gothic dragon fantasy.

"Yes, my... friend." He was almost unsure why they were still talking.

"You can just knock off one of the smaller components."

This solution seemed obvious, but he allowed her to explain.

"According to the old inventory, you should have twenty sets of components. Twenty giant boxes, twenty little boxes, and twenty of the little packets."

"Sure, but a few of those odds and ends are missing. Not a surprise after all these years."

"We can argue that. Top security should be just that, but - yes - we have to deal with what you've got."

"What we've got..."

"Are you worried about this blowing up in your face, Tony? If it makes you happy, I'll be just as screwed as you are if this order is messed up."

"Yes. It does make me happier. Thanks for reassuring me."

Sheila sighed and drew to a close. "Cut all the components down to eighteen. The lift print rearranges to more of a fat oval. The Hercules will squeeze that all in."

Tony let his packing program redraw the crate positioning. It worked perfectly. "Sheila, you're a genius. I only have to conceal the spare items, one little box, one little packet. Thankyou."

"De nada. I'm away home, Tony. Don't call me again this week unless the sky opens up."

"Sheila?"

"Oh. What, Tony?"

"Could you say 'help me, help me' again?"


	8. Chapter 8

There was a general mêlée over the pizza boxes. No-one wanted to be the first to admit they relished the idea of an adventure slightly further afield than their normal hinterland. And finding Jack seemed to be a given. But they would have to live with this character Bruce.

"What are we saying then? Are we actually all going to run off on some wild-goose chase to the Himalayas?" suggested Owen. His wrinkled nose suggested a degree of doubt.

"We owe it to Jack to follow this up," replied Ianto quietly. "I didn't think we would need to argue about it."

"Remember. He's the one who disappeared," began Owen. "I didn't find a note asking us to follow him."

Ianto waved a triangle of pizza in a circle. "This energy swirl may have grabbed him. I don't think he had any choice."

"Look. Maybe he doesn't want to be around us any more." Owen sighed. "I do feel slightly guilty about it. After all, no-one else in the team has actually killed Jack…"

"Apart from Suzie," interjected Gwen without humor. "But he wouldn't hold that kind of grudge, Owen. There was a big reason for him to go. Do we want to try and find him? That's all."

Owen paused. Gwen's question revealed her decision. There was certainly a lot about Jack that defied conventional discussion. Perhaps a few of them needed to follow him to the ends of the Earth to prove their loyalty. Owen would need to think carefully about the loyalty aspect. But in London he had made a decision to commit to the team so that probably sorted his travel plans for the next few weeks.

"Who will feed the pets while we're away?" Owen countered weakly. "We can't just leave the Hub unattended."

"What pets?" asked Tosh bewildered.

"I think he means our pterodactyl guard-dog," Gwen chipped in slightly irritated.

"Myfanwy is big enough to look after herself. I can rig up a timed feeding mechanism," answered Ianto with growing excitement.

"When do we have to leave then?" Owen found himself asking.

"Bruce said tomorrow morning," Gwen answered with a wary smile. "I expect we'd have to go at the same time. How does that sound? You're not doing anything else are you?"

At that point they had all decided it seemed. There were a few shrugged shoulders, an ambivalent lower lip, but gradually they all began to nod. Gwen even smiled. Owen still frowned.

Gwen sent the text message quickly, before they could talk each other out of the decision.

"Replay those schematics from the briefing," said Tosh, "we might need some specialist sensors."

"Will we have to bring tents or anything like that?" asked Gwen.

"Not really sure." Ianto mused on whether Bruce had considered any of the more mundane aspects of projecting the team to a location beyond the end of the street.

Let alone onto a mountain top. On the other side of the world. At least it was the same planet.

"What about special weapons?" asked Gwen.

"Want to get your hands on some of the big guns this time?" laughed Owen.

"I was thinking more of a force field or something like that. Do we have force fields?" queried Gwen. Tosh nodded matter-of-factly; she may have had something small in mind.

"For trouble, I think guns will do," said Owen.

Ianto nodded. "Yes. Guns. Definitely guns. As many as we can take as hand luggage."

Bruce checked the confirmation message, then decided to get some sleep with some satisfaction. He was glad that the instant decapitation strategy had not been required. The find in China was a genuine investigation and this team would be more help than most, and - of course - as disposable as any other. The need to detonate remotely the miniature thermal device in the lavatory block was thus unnecessary. However, rather than stage any kind of elaborate attempt to retrieve the device, he decided to leave it in place as a souvenir. No-one would ever know he had planted it, and if it ever did go off accidentally... Well, he never planned to return to Torchwood Three anyway. Or indeed, Wales.

Ianto went to a special drawer at his old desk. He had a gun that he was keeping for a special occasion, and this seemed to qualify. A friend from Bureau Zero in France had traded it with him for a Greek-looking discus, which Ianto had never found a use for, although he always felt cheated at letting it go. It was a pretty conventional looking revolver from the 19th Century, but it had some very nice bullets, no doubt alien in origin. Ianto had only been allowed to practise with it once in their subterranean target range, before receiving an official safety warning. Surely, the other side of the earth would be now be a safe distance to make proper use of it.

"Take your pick," said Gwen. She opened the smaller armory cupboard for Owen.

Owen thought carefully, but settled for the HiCapa 4.3. He noticed an extra molding in the carry-on flight-case, so he threw in a second for luck.

"Why don't we take this too?" suggested Ianto pointing out a stubby looking rifle which could easily have been a large piece of medical kit. "Those Tokyo Marui guys make a mean assault rifle. But, look at this. Some of this design must have fallen off a spaceship." Owen nodded, although the whole toys-for-boys thing was wearing thin.

Gwen settled for a German made SIG Sauer P226, standard police issue with a few extra corrosion-resistant components. Nothing fancy.

"What about, you Tosh?" Gwen asked. "A little something for the holidays?"

Tosh seemed unsure and shook her head. "Why don't you sort out the security side and I'll get the computers together. We won't be shooting in the mountains anyway. There's no-one there."

Gwen plucked a small taser from several boxes on the lower shelf. Just right for a ladies purse.

"Haven't you got anything bigger?" Owen mused. "What if that Bruce kicks off and we have to teach him a lesson?"

"Jack always says you should never join a team where you can't wrestle the biggest guy to the ground," Ianto noted.

"I'm sure he does," Owen fake-smiled.


	9. Chapter 9

In the morning, blinking, bemused and still a little incredulous, Ianto, Owen and Tosh arrived at Cardiff Airport straight from the Hub in a couple of taxis. They were dropped at one of the smaller aviation sheds off the main access road. The modern fibrous plastic shell contained nothing more than a very disorganised office and several broken bits of regrettably human low-technology. Bruce appeared to have been there well in advance and, barely acknowledging their presence, directed a nominally civilian baggage handler to pile their luggage without grace into a tall Post Office cage.

"Are you mailing us to Tibet?" quipped Owen. He was still unsure about this character from within their own organization. He didn't smell right; metaphorically speaking.

"We'll use Her Majesty's postal services to carry some of our kit to Cyprus. It's the most efficient system until we get there on the U*N*I*T plane."

"U*N*I*T?" queried Ianto, raising an eyebrow. "Now we're moving in high circles."

"Where is Constable Cooper?" Bruce stopped his minor notetaking to look them in the eye. "I understood this was to be a team effort."

"Yes it is." Tosh attempted a very weak smile. "Gwen is just saying goodbye to Rhys."

Owen and Ianto looked at each other knowingly. "I hope it's just a quick goodbye," smirked Ianto.

Bruce's eyebrows raised slightly. "Rhys?" It seemed he was unaware of the name. Owen noted this minor lapse for possible future use, although it seemed unlikely it would be a 'killer' fact (so to speak).

"Here's Gwen," shouted Tosh. "Time to go."

The flight to Cyprus was only a few hours, but the Air Force aircraft was not built for style, so the food was basic and the entertainment minimal. They spent most of the time trying to get comfy, either seated or lying down, or scanning thru documents for discussion, but, apart from his original curt presentation, Bruce did not appear to have any further information and refused to sync his notebook computer with Tosh's. It was a much less exciting trip than most of them had thought.

At Larnaca, they waited on the tarmac, wondering what to do next. Bruce explained there would be a short delay while he went to be investigate what was happening. Tosh and Gwen fished their shades out of their hand luggage. Owen and Ianto were left to squint wistfully into the distance.

Ianto ogled the warm surface of the Mediterranean in the distance, the surface choppy, but sparkling. "We could go windsurfing," suggested Ianto, enviously absorbing the warm and comforting atmosphere while he could.

"You first," replied Owen. He was facing the other way and could see the rather more sober mountains of the island interior. These did not fill him with a desire to climb and he was disappointed to feel no desire to return here. Possibly if Jack were standing at the top in person, waving a giant flag saying "Torchwood Here!" he might be persuaded to make the trek, but these were mere hiccups compared to the Himalayas. And no Jack; no flag. Best not to think about it just now.

With much less drama, Bruce was waving at them from the low glass-fronted building. They took a few minutes to realize that he was beckoning them all over. They trailed slowly over the tarmac chatting lazily.

"What's up, Brucie?" asked Owen. Bruce was chatting curtly to a U*N*I*T NCO. She saluted formally and left in a hurry.

"There's no other way to put it. But there's been a bit of a bureaucratic… error," Bruce replied sulkily.

"Did they spell your name wrong?" suggested Owen, with a slightly cheeky flare of his nostrils. The other three had barely filled the doorway, and it looked doubtful if they would actually enter the building. Indeed Gwen thought twice and curled round the doorway to the side by a cola machine, flipping open her cellphone, looking for a signal. Nothing.

"All the technical baggage has missed the plane," Bruce explained inside. He lowered his voice to emphasize his next euphemism. "The highly technical equipment," he enunciated. It was an unnecessary contrivance given their highly sensitive location.

Suddenly, Owen got the plot. "What? The sensors? The detection equipment?" He began to feel angry. "What happened? Where is it?"

Bruce straightened up, emphasizing this was not his error. "It's back in the UK," he remarked quietly, a scowl hiding in his forehead.

"No big deal," said Ianto. "We'll just hang around here until it turns up." He smiled encouragingly to Owen. "We could find a nice beach somewhere."

"That's really out of the question," said Bruce. "Our transport onto Nepal is booked for this evening. That's the flight I arranged. We either go then or paddle on the sand and head home tomorrow."

"I think we already decided to come," replied Ianto. "We can make-do with what they have here. Our Torchwood credentials must mean something."

Tosh frowned along with the other two. Then she lifted her sunglasses from her nose and smiled encouragingly. "I've still got my laptop. That'll do for a start."

"Yeah," said Owen sarcastically. "And Ianto will have a word with some of the chaps here. See if we can rustle up a lasergun or two."

"Well, yes," agreed Ianto. "That's not as difficult as you might think. Always a few weapons lying around this sort of place. But, steady on though. Your actual laserguns might be a little hard to wangle."

Bruce shook his head. "U*N*I*T are not just going to give out a box of assault rifles to tourists. By all means try to get some equipment here, but I have some contacts in Nepal that I was going to speak to anyway. We have a better chance of re-equipping there. You might be better off finding something decent to eat. I can't guarantee the quality of our rations for the next week or so."

They let Bruce leave without further questioning. Gwen took his place in the cabin.

"The reception is rubbish here," she said.

"That's not the only thing that we're missing here," said Owen.


	10. Chapter 10

The Hercules transport plane from Wiltshire arrived at the far edge of the airfield at Larnaca with its specially optimized cargo. It taxied without ceremony to a strip at the edge of the most secret area where even the mainstream Military Police were excluded from observing the airside arrangements. The enormous hold held eighteen giant cubes notable by the age of their wooden exteriors and the tattered flecks of paper gummed to the outside. The loading ramp lowered slowly at the back of the heavylift plane, and, within seconds, a small set of automated pallet-shifters scuttled up the ramp into the hold. Waiting at the bottom, a black-bereted U*N*I*T commander watched the procession of crates, then returned to the low office building and picked up the phone.

"Tower? This is Rapace. The T2 pick has arrived at Point L. The pilot says there are forwarding issues with the overall payload deadweight. I would like to request permission to optimize the contents."

The voice at the other end of the line was garbled, but emphatic.

"Affirmative, Colonel, but noone is to know what is in the crates. This appears to include you and I. Can you check over the items with as few people as possible knowing?"

"I'll make it work," said the commander. He pressed the phone receiver to disconnect the call then dialled the five digits to get the extension he required.

"Price?"

"Colonel? I'm busy. Call back later." Colonel Rapace liked this young man, but felt that some of the new graduates got the wrong idea of their own importance when they entered U*N*I*T training school. A degree in game theory did not necessarily entitle you to save the world, or indeed oblige you.

"Get down here, Price. It's what the Army calls 'an order'. We need some keen eyes on a bit of a science project."

"I'm working on my own project right now, thankyou, and the reactor has just enough spare capacity to make it work."

"Price, it's a T2. We need it off our hands as quick as we can."

"God, that lunatic Bruce? I would have thought that we would have been far enough away from his mad schemes. I'll be down in a minute."

"Go straight out to the strip. We'll keep everything airside."

Price arrived wearing a pristine white labcoat as his badge of honor and holding a small tablet computer to show he knew what he was doing. The eighteen massive crates had been unloaded and stood only a few metres from the tail of the aircraft. While Rapace stood behind him, Price redrew the crate layout by tapping squares on the screen.

"It's not difficult, Colonel, sir. The pilot could have worked it out for himself."

"Herself. The pilot's a lady, Price. Just redo the layout and get this thing off my airstrip."

"Hard to tell under those big flight helmets. Maybe she'd leave me her email if I smiled nicely? Look, the eighteen crates were originally arranged in two long rows of nine to allow the smaller items to fit along the side. This has caused the plane to be stiff along the middle and it's rolling a little in flight. If we just shift everything a tiny bit, we get three rows of..?" Price looked expectantly at the colonel.

"Arithmetic is your job, Price. Security of the site is mine. Of course, the answer is 'six', but as the science officer you have to signoff on the reconfiguration."

"Correct. The stubbier shape of the three-by-six arrangement will fit in better with the core of the plane. The smaller boxes can just go at the front and the back." Price stabbed the redrawn plan with a decisive index finger.

The handful of tiny little tow-motors trundled forward and began to reload the cargo hold. The job took several long minutes during which Price repeatedly asked if he could go and Colonel Rapace repeatedly ordered him to remain still.

As the last few crates motored up the ramp, the co-pilot appeared at the top of the ramp and waved to get Rapace's attention. "Do you want this in there too?" She seemed to be holding a thick plastic bag containing what could have been a small regulation football.

"What is it?" shouted the Colonel, lifting his chin up. "I've had lunch. I don't need someone else's sandwiches."

"It was too big for the hold. According to the computer anyway. The warehouse guy in Wiltshire persuaded me to put it in the locker up there in the cabin." Despite the giant dark visor, she looked pleased with herself. "Same plane. Same weight. Different location."

"I can't hear everything you're saying," the Colonel replied. "If it's not on the manifest. I don't want it."

But the noise of the plane was still inconveniently loud and the co-pilot tossed the packet casually from the top of the ramp. The plastic-wrapped sphere bounced on the uneven grass, then spun oddly to the side as if it had bounced off a magnetic field.

"You idiot!" Although Rapace was shouting, the noise of the plane's rotors still drowned out his voice. The spherical package turned like a spinning top where it lay in the mud, then bounced up in a slicing arc striking the side of the last crate with a crash. The crate began to shudder like a heavy motor was starting up inside. The sphere stayed stuck to the side of the crate, buzzing and crackling with energy.

Price looked up from the tablet alarmed. The co-pilot had retreated back into the Hercules and the loading ramp started to close. The crate rattled again and the sides began to flex in and out.

"I've done the maths, Colonel. Now you can do the security bit. If you don't mind, I'm going back to my nuclear reactor."

"Price!" shouted Rapace as his scientific adviser turned to run.

Price turned back to the commander, wondering how much his career relied on this minor element of the U*N*I*T hierarchy.

"Is this your doing?" Rapace shouted. The crate burst open at the side, wood splintering outwards, a dark bulky arm emerging. The sphere started to float, attempting to enter the crate. Rapace drew his service revolver from the holster under his arm and aimed at the giant limb. It was hard to tell if it was part of a giant animal or a heavy dark metal. Some kind of robot?

"No, not me, commander. Might be an electrical fault? A residual programming error?" Price ventured, a nervous smile curling around his lips. He was fascinated to find out what was in the crate, but he was still ready to flee.

Rapace turned his aim from what they could see of this robotic monster and pointed his gun firmly toward his scientific advisor.

"Make it stop!" he ordered quietly.

Price raised his arms, partly placating, partly excusing. "I only work on energy supplies. Robotics is a whole other person's job."

"Dammit, you're right. We'll just have to shut everything down." Rapace lowered the pistol and brought out his radio. "Tower? Degauss Point L. Please. Now." He turned to look at Price. "I would try to hold your breath for the next minute or two." Then everything went dark.


	11. Chapter 11

The evening was drawing to a close when the transport plane finally appeared outside the cabin.

"I'm pleased I brought my winter gear now", said Gwen as she wrapped a scarf around her neck and face.

"Agreed," said Ianto. "I came here once on holidays. It gets pretty cold in the evening."

Gwen raised her eyebrows. "Didn't you come for the social life?"

Ianto tutted. "There's more than twenty-four hour drinking here. There's a lot of culture. Things like that."

Owen picked up his makeshift luggage and laughed. "Name one thing worth seeing outside of a beach bar," he challenged.

Ianto tutted again. "Let's just get going. I'm sure it'll be fine on-board the plane." He pushed open the door to the cabin and left, shouting back "Churches and temples."

Owen smiled across to Gwen, pleased to have had a joke at Ianto's expense. He turned to Bruce who was at the back of the cabin. He was pointing at which bags were to be loaded on for him.

"I didn't know we had porters, Bruce," noted Owen. "Better wrap up too."

Bruce kept his gaze on the departing baggage. "You may proceed without further concern, Dr. Harper. I am adequately prepared. But – yes – we should go."

Owen held the door open for Gwen and nodded Tosh to leave too. Tosh mouthed that he should be quiet as she passed him, then giggled nervously.

"No offence," shouted Ianto as he lugged his lighter bags to the hold of the plane. "But this thing looks like it was last used on the set of a black-and-white movie."

"Built to last though, Mr Jones. It'll take a lot to make this thing fall out of the sky." Owen was taking his single bag into the cabin of the plane. He tapped the fuselage of the plane to confirm this, although the sound he heard was more wooden than metallic.

Ianto paused while securing his bag with an elastic rope. "That's not very reassuring, you know."

Owen whispered, "I'm a little more worried about how reliable our big Scottish friend is." He nodded by way of emphasis.

"We have to give him a chance to get us to where we're going," said Ianto. "I think we know that the lead is genuine."

"But this guy, this Bruce," said Owen. "He doesn't fit any kind of profile of 'safe'."

"Well, he works for Torchwood for a start," Ianto noted.

"Precisely my point," Owen replied. "Sometimes I think I might trust the pterodactyl to be more predictable than any of us lot. What a shower we all are."

"Speak for yourself. I'd trust any of you three. Why wouldn't I? Don't you trust me?"

"No offence, Ianto, my favorite office-manager, but noone knows how they'll react when it comes to saving your skin, saving your mind, saving your soul."

After rushing to load the plane, there was then a fifteen minute delay while their plane sat on its corner of the tarmac. "What's the hold-up?" asked Gwen as the cabin manager passed her seat.

"A slight radiation leak at the far edge of the field," he replied with a smile. "Don't worry. We get these alerts all the time. All sorts of ordnance passing thru, bits dropping off aircraft, you know."

Gwen smiled as he walked back to the tail, but she was not reassured. She turned to Tosh with her eyebrows slightly raised. "Hopefully we'll get off the ground without being microwaved," she joked.

Tosh looked concerned. "I'm not so worried about problems with the technology. I always hated travelling when I was a little girl. I feel just the same now, like we're going away from home. Away from a safe place."

"It's been dangerous in Cardiff, Tosh. We've looked for trouble, and we've asked trouble to come find us. It'll make a welcome change not to be fighting from a sewer."

Tosh smiled weakly. She sat back in her chair as she realized the plane was moving off and starting to pick up speed.

"Everyone buckle up. We'll be in the air in a few minutes," shouted the cabin manager. He was very reassuring, and did not make any attempt to demonstrate any safety features.

As the craft lifted into the air, Gwen looked out of her window into the darkness. As the plane tilted and headed up to the clouds, the whole airport below could be seen as a sparkling outline of dots marking runways and cabins, access roads and hangars.

"Look at that, Tosh," she remarked without looking up. In a remote corner, like a crop pattern, a near-perfect circle of light had been extinguished leaving a dark hole in the illuminated area.

"They must have had a power cut of some kind," she mumbled. It was difficult to work out what had carved out such a neatly outlined shape. But the clouds were quickly swirling around them and she became less interested in that particular mystery.

"Oh well," she thought. "It's nothing to do with us now."


	12. Chapter 12

Owen knew that the flight to Kathmandu was going to be long and tedious so he tried to relax with a low-key meditation. He resisted the urge to look out of the small windows and was determined not to be drawn into any conversations, grunting moderately when Ianto tried to speak to him.

"Suit yourself," said Ianto. He felt vaguely sick with the movement of the plane, and tried to settle in his chair under a heavy dark blanket. He attempted to read but he stopped as it gave him a headache. "I never understood the appeal of Dylan Thomas anyway", he grumbled. The only option left was to look at the pictures in a slightly dated celebrity magazine.

In the seats up front, Gwen tried to chat with Tosh, but Tosh was not in a mood to talk.

"Is that Everest?" asked Gwen pointing out of her window. She vaguely indicated a distant line of snow-covered peaks.

"I don't think we're anywhere near the Himalayas yet," Tosh noted indifferently. "We're probably only just into Pakistan. A few hours yet."

"Plenty of time to relax then. I'm not really sure what we'll do when we get there. We might stick out a bit if it's just a load of Buddhist monks. What will we talk about?"

"Maybe you could swap fashion tips," offered Tosh. She was not sure if she liked Gwen's casual characterization of the people they had not met yet.

"Oh, I don't know what I'd have to offer in that area," Gwen replied obliviously.

Tosh regretted her sarcasm and tried to pick up the conversation. She pointed to the front of the magazine Ianto was holding in front of his face. "The Prime Minister's wife is always well dressed for the cameras. I don't know how she does it."

Gwen studied the vacant but beautiful face on the cover. "Never smiles, does she? Not properly anyway. Mind you, with her family's money, she doesn't have to make an effort to be sociable."

"Some people hide their fears well," said Tosh. "It's not all fox-hunting and cucumber sandwiches, I imagine."

"Probably a lot of lettuce though. She doesn't look like she eats too well either, poor lass."

:::

No-one asked about Bruce. He might have been sleeping in the hold or flying the plane one-handed for all they knew. No-one thought to ask. But Bruce worked well in the shadow of indifference; composing his messages and sending his transmissions. He sat well back from the general cheerfulness in a small area near the tail of the plane. There were a few signs that it had been used for food preparation in commercial times. He used the loosely fitted kettle to make some terrible tea while checking what messages he could during the data gaps in the plane's most-modern communications.

Among all the usual reports and leads were some trivial looking valedictories from the new Prime Minister. It was all rubbish, as much junk as the electronic mails promising affordable loans and under-the-counter pharmaceuticals. What he was really interested in was the transit report from ordnance. He needed to know that his plan was coming together. He scrolled down to the only message with a double red flag and hit the select button.

The subject read "UNIT Burrow T2 Tracking – Report". He was used to directing materiel here and there using only his clearance. He rarely trusted individuals to carry out his demands. People proved inefficient and unable to hold their tongues. However, he was concerned that this particular task should have had more hands-on control. It was by far the most important thing he had ever done, but joining up the two strands made him uncharacteristically nervous.

The Wiltshire update was carelessly written, but at least it was clear his packages were on their way. He made a note in his data assistant to have the bunker staff sent on a Plain English course.

A second double-flagged message arrived as he was fretting over the inadequacy of the first. The subject read "RAF Cuprum T2 Tracking – Report". The description was overly ornate, the work of a bored individual who did not know the real meaning of hard work. But the attempt to conceal the operational mistakes was clear. Something had obviously gone wrong at Larnaca. Bruce had noticed the odd activity around the airfield. From the report he could now work out that a ham-fisted grunt on the ground had panicked. She had decided to use a graphite bomb to shut down all the electrical activity around his special delivery. That might prove fatal to his plan. His 'electrical' goods might not function as he intended if they had been completely shut down.

He made another note in his data assistant. He had a few recommendations to make about potential promotions when he returned home.

:::

In the seats up front, Gwen and Tosh had begun to chat more easily. They flitted from famous people and mortgages to coffee plantations and personal relationships. Artfully, they never strayed into the domain of how work might be destroying their lives.

When their conversation dipped occasionally it was easily restarted by frequent pointing out of the window. "That looks nice." "That looks lovely." The sky was clear and bright and they had left behind any suggestion of the sea.

Owen at last felt bored enough to sit with Gwen and Tosh. He leaned over the seats behind them. "Is that Everest?" he asked. They laughed knowingly. Gwen poured a plastic cup of coffee from a flask on a trolley and offered it to him.

"Sorry Owen. Take a seat. I have a feeling that we still have a long way to go," said Gwen.


End file.
